Prunella Vulgaris's compendium, or: A companion for the ingenious of either sex. The newest experiments in japanning, to imitate the Indian way, plain and in speckles, rockwork, figures, &c. The art of persuming and beautifying. Divers receipts in physick and surgery, with many other useful things. To make enamel of divers colours for gold, silver, or other metals. To which are added, many curiosities, and rare secrets, known to few, but very profitable and pleasant.

Friday, April 6, 2012

the world is my fuse

There was Stravinsky, which my mom got from the library probably thinking it would sound more like Grieg's "morning song' rather than the riot-inducing dissonance that it was, and then that band that a classmate and prom date introduced me to. We all sat on the floor of his room at his graduation party, listening to this quarterlife fury of love lost.

Emo was just getting big, all these ten-band mediocre hardcore fest bills stacked with acts that occasionally sounded good until you realized they all sounded the same. It was before Myspace, and asymmetrical haircuts and white belts and spotless chuck taylors were becoming more ever-present, a whole new game of scene points and oneupmanship. I went to the shows for the pits and the getting out of the house and being with my friends. He told me to listen to this instead, having loaned me Repeater and a couple crust punk albums that I wasn't so into. Half the band formed Fugazi later on, and the shows were legendary for their emotional rawness and for bucking the trend of jocko skinheadness.

I bought my copy of Rites of Spring at the now-defunct Chris' Warped Records at the same time as Jawbox's Novelty, and taped this album for so many people, swearing that this was infinitely better than whatever band they were into, which was kind of elitist of me I guess. Some of my friends at that time who looked more punky still preferred Good Charlotte and the Used as it was. Most pretentiousness comes from deep-seated insecurity, as I've never been good at this cool thing or cred thing. I'm so glad these years are done and I don't care anymore.

But I woke up this morning with a piece of past caught in my throat- And then I choked.

I dug this CD out this past year, wondering if the melodrama of emotional 80's punk would still resonate with my 28-year-old self and found that it did even more than when I was 18. Back then it was just socially awkward high school interactions, but the hurts and the bruises were much less personal, the angst less abstract. I didn't know what it was like to get burned or be disappointed or feel truly stuck and lost until much later. It amazes me that it feels just as cathartic as it did back then, if not moreso. So much of the punk I loved in my early twenties rings a bit ridiculous now, but this has stuck.

I have learned sometimes a need can run too deep... throw away the things we most wanted to keep...I could walk around--fall in love with a face or two
But it wouldn't be you--no it wouldn't be you
'Cause you're not who I thought you were, and I can't explain...

If its not the rule then its always the case,
good intentions get fractured, good intentions get replaced,
so close to reach but so hard to hold,
the only chance you get is past your control, it's so hard, it's so hard.

Maybe what you've seen isn't part of me at all
It must belong to someone but not to me
Maybe I was too quick - too quick to turn my head
But I had to go - just to get around
Other way around
The world it wants you weak
Another way around
I was so young - I didn't know what it meant
to be hurt and then to hurt

And hope is just another rope to hang myself with,
to tie me down, til something real comes around.

Believe me I had wished, we could have avoided this. Please don't ask me to explain all the things that caused your pain - I only want you to realize, passivity equals compliance - let it slip right through your hands, become the victim of other's demands.

And I've found the answer lies in a real emotion
Not the self-indulgence of a self-devotion.

I am the victim of a persistent vision
It tracks me down with its precision
And though I know you're not in my eyes
I can't seem to clear you from my mind

But I've got it now
I've got the rhythm down
Cycles of end on end
But if one wave stops, another begins

1 comment:

There's a danger of ridiculousness in maturity too, thinking we know more, when all we do know is experience, still flailing whilst trying to process. So I guess it's not so strange that if something was good, it still is. Are we really so much less ridiculous?